The First Room on the Left
by Cheap Indifference
Summary: The minute I stepped inside I just about turned around because there was one thing that I knew that wasn't going to be the same and that was upstairs, the first room on the left.


**Disclaimer: I do not own anything but Jane. And the wonderful Amber Kemp belongs to the even more wonderful aerodynamics.**

**A/N: This is for Jenny, since I "tortured" her but also, she's the one who convinces me to post Jane stuff! I hope you enjoy!**

**April 5th, 1969**

I walked into Buck's after being away for almost three years. It was the middle of the day and I was thankful it was early enough that there wasn't going to be any people around buying their four scotches before heading home.

I didn't want to be there, and I sure as hell didn't want to be in Tulsa. There wasn't anything left for me here; Washington was where I was supposed to be now. But after getting into too much trouble and ending up in the hospital my brother and Amber managed to drag me back to this god for saken city. And here I was, almost like I hadn't left at all.

Tulsa, a place with too many memories; memories I really didn't want to be reminded of daily. And being at Buck's wasn't helping much either. I didn't want to be there but Buck had called when he found out I was back in town, I thought a friendly face couldn't hurt. It was the bar everyone went to when we were kids and I wouldn't be surprised if it looked exactly the same.

I didn't know why Buck wanted to see me; we were never close. We joked around a lot but he was more my brother's friend than anything. At least that's the way I always saw it. It was always his reason for cutting me off so early when I was younger. I did consider him a friend though and thought that this was the least I could do after skipping town without so much of a goodbye to anyone.

I walked into the bar and everything was the same, just as I knew it would be. It looked the same, smelt the same, had the same noises, and even had that same squeaky door that needed new hinges. The minute I stepped inside I just about turned around because there was one thing that I knew that wasn't going to be the same and that was upstairs, the first room on the left; the room where Dallas had spent most of his nights.

I cringed inwardly, even thinking his name still hurt and I was beginning to wonder if the pain would ever really go away. Before I could leave, even turn around, I spotted Buck coming out from the back room behind the bar. I knew he saw me too so I just stood there for a second before giving him a small smile. He made his way around the bar before swooping me up into a big bear hug, something I wasn't expecting, not from Buck anyway.

"It's good to see you again, Janey," he said as he pulled away, giving me a grin that had me actually believing he was genuinely happy, maybe even relieved. I guess I never thought how many people I had worrying about me back at home. It was selfish of me to leave and not to think that maybe everyone else was hurting too.

"Come," he said as he made his way back to the bar. "I'll make ya a drink."

I slowly followed him, taking a couple of deep breaths to try and keep myself from having a complete meltdown. I stood in front of the bar and looked at him, if he really called me all the way down here to have a drink in this place, he'd definitely get a piece of my mind.

"Rum and Coke, easy on the Coke. Right?" he asked, taking out a glass.

"You remembered," I smirked as I sat down. Keeping myself away from the one Dallas used to place himself in night after night.

"Course I did," he grinned as he started to wipe down the counter. He tossed the rag aside and poured me a drink I hadn't had in awhile.

"You were a regular, once upon a time."

An awkward silence fell between us. It was weird; I used to always have something to say, I usually didn't know when to shut my mouth. But when my eyes made their way to that empty stool there really wasn't much either of us could say about it.

I swear I could still see him sitting there, hunched over his drink, hating the whole goddamn world. Everyone used to always tell me what kind of a guy Dallas Winston was, that in the end there was one person he cared about and that was himself.

Maybe I was just making an excuse to be mad at him, to hate him. I hated to admit it but it sure made getting over everything a whole lot easier. I turned back to Buck, taking a sip of the stiff drink he had made me, I looking up at him.

"What am I doing here Buck?"

I was half convinced he'd called me hear to drive me crazy, piss me off a little and then send me on my way. Because everyone seemed to be doing fine and dandy, after all it had been three years. It was different for me, I wished it wasn't; but I wasn't over it.

My mom said people grieved in different ways, and sometimes it took people longer than others to accept that something bad had happened. Everyone said time healed everything; I was beginning to think that was just a load of bullshit. It had been years and I still felt the same way I did the night me and my brother sat on the kitchen floor for hours.

Buck sighed and motioned for me to follow him, so I hopped off of the bar stool and followed him up the creaking stairs. The stairs that so many girls walked their walk of shame every Sunday morning, trying their damnedest to make the old stairs keep quiet.

I tried to deny where we were going; truth was I knew. The first door on the left had been haunting me since I stepped foot in the bar. But my feet kept moving and my mouth didn't dare to make a protest. Maybe I wanted to be reminded of him, to be in the room he called home more than his own.

Buck opened the door and glanced at me, almost like he was nervous or something. It didn't look like it belonged to anyone; it was just a small room with a bed, a nightstand, and a small closet, that would hardly be able to fit anything at all. The window with the old green drapes was the only thing that made it a bedroom.

I felt like Dallas' clothes should have been scattered everywhere, the sheets should have been a mangled mess, and the nightstand should have been covered in bottles. But it was actually well kept; the bed was even made.

I looked up Buck and waited for him to say something, anything, because I wanted to know why the fuck we were up here.

"Only people from outta town stay in here," he told me as he made his way to the closet.

I gave him a nod of understanding, people who didn't know the history, who didn't know Dallas. I guess people were still grieving.

I watched as Buck pulled out a box from the top shelf of the closet. Dropping it in front of me, he looked awfully nervous. I glanced at the box and looked back up at him. Before I could ask him what the hell was in the box he was mumbling something terribly fast.

"I, uh, didn't right throwin' any of it out. And—well, you're the only person I could think of giving it to. You know that, uh, would appreciate it I guess."

I stepped back and leaned against the wall. Whatever was in the box I didn't want it. I knew. I knew, what was in the damn box. But I so badly wanted to tear it open; I wanted to see what was left of him.

"Maybe you should go downstairs Buck," I said, staring at the box. It was so fucked up that something so small had me literally shaking, sick to my stomach and I just wanted to be alone.

"Janey, maybe—"

"Just go, Buck!" I snapped, cutting him off. He sighed before gripping my shoulder and leaving me alone with the box that I didn't know whether I hated or not. I waited for him to make his way down the stairs.

Kneeling down, I sat on my knees and stared at it. I didn't know if I wanted to open it or not. The way the flaps of the box folded into each other was just so tempting. I ran my hands over the top and took a deep breath as I slowly opened it before I convinced myself to just leave and walk away.

As soon as I did, I instantly regretted it. All I could smell was Dallas with a hint of cigarette smoke and hay from the stables. I could feel my eyes start to well up and I blinked a few times. I hadn't cried for Dallas, not the night he died or even at his funeral. It was almost like when I thought of him there was this big blank spot of nothingness.

It was something I couldn't explain, and I knew if Dal were there he'd understand and he'd be able to explain it a whole hell of a lot better than I ever could. I wanted to close the box because it was making me realize how much I really was missing him and that I had been avoiding everything that used to be apart of him, including my own brother.

Before I could close the box forever, I found myself looking through it. There wasn't much, really. Dallas never had much. There were his riding boots, a pack of half empty Kools, a few pairs of socks and a few t-shirts.

I could feel my throat closing and I knew if I didn't leave soon I'd bawl. But there was something keeping me there so instead of getting up I took a shaky breath and pulled out a t-shirt. I couldn't help but smirk a little.

It was his navy blue shirt and it was my favourite. I remember telling him once that he looked good in blue; he never wore it again, not in front of me at least. I swear he did it to spite. When I asked about it he said he lost it.

I closed my eyes and chuckled to myself as I shook my head. Fucking liar.

And then, as if three years had been too long, I cried. I didn't even bother to try and control myself I just hugged his shirt and let his smell torture me some more.

**Reviews are motivation.**


End file.
